Weddings are Tragedies
by Ellenyx
Summary: Sherlock can't help but feel alone after all he'd done, after all he spilled to the entire room of strangers at the wedding. He can't help but feel vulnerable. After leaving the party he meets up with Mycroft who helps him feel not-so-alone. SEASON 3 SPOILERS. ONESHOT. NOT HOLMESCEST I mean...unless you want to imagine it that way, sure. PLS RVW :)


**Weddings are Tragedies**

Sherlock made his way from the after party, the music still blaring at his back. He hailed a taxi, his mind blank to all that was going on. A black vehicle pulled up, the window rolling down. Mycroft's face appeared in the darkened cabin lighting.

"Sherlock," he smiled, dressed casually -obviously not attending the party. Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit and shook his head.

"What do you need Mycroft?" He tucked his hands into his pockets.

"I'm on my way to a small get together, thought I'd swing by and check out the party. From here, of course." He smiled. "But surprise you're leaving already, and things seem to be in good spirits meaning you didn't mess things up this time." Sherlock swallowed, looking down. The older brothers eyebrows furrowed as he saw the expression on his little brothers face, his smile fading. "Get in. I'll give you a ride home."

Sherlock was just about to tell Mycroft to shove his offer, but there was this desperate need for comfort, to know he's not alone. Bundling his coat around him tighter he walked around to the other side of the car and got in. He didn't say anything as he shut the door, the driver pulling into traffic, and neither did Mycroft.

They rode in silence, nothing but the sound of the tires on the road, and the busyness of the city. People holding hands, kissing. Sherlock looked at them all. Everyone had someone to be with, except him. He felt his bottom lip quiver a bit, a motion he stopped with his teeth. His eyes watered as a voice in the back of his head questioned _what did you do?_ He took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to distance himself from it.

Mycroft looked at his little brother, his forehead crinkling. In the dark, he could see the slight distress emerging through Sherlock's normal facade. Confusion, desperation, loneliness, hurt. Something happened at that wedding. Something that hurt his little brother whom he loved even if they did butt heads.

Pulling up to 221B Baker Street Mycroft got out just as Sherlock did. "You can go now Mycroft, I'm not some...prom date who needs to be escorted to her door." Sherlock replied, his defenses back up.

"No, but the party can wait, I want to hear about the wedding." Mycroft smiled, following the detective in anyway.

"It was a wedding Mycroft." Sherlock replied, dashing up the stairs, pulling his coat off as he did. "It was a disaster as they always are. They played dress up, walked down a long stretch of floor to music fit for a funeral service, cried, kissed, ate, got drunk, found out Mary was pregnant, and danced." He threw his coat on the couch and turned, arms outstretched in a manner that said 'what else were you expecting?'

"And yet here you are leaving the party early." Mycroft replied, shutting the door behind him.

"It was boring." Sherlock plopped down in his chair, his head rested against the back.

"Was it?" Mycroft walked over, sitting on the arm of John's chair. He stared at Sherlock, waiting.

"I mean as boring as a gaggle of strangers shoved arm to arm in a tiny room, flouncing about to music is." Sherlock muttered.

"I thought you liked dancing?" The older brother raised an eyebrow. Sherlock looked at him, sitting up a bit. He propped his chin on his palm, his curled fingers resting against his lips.

"Don't be stupid." He muttered.

"You sound like a wounded dog." Mycroft pushed.

"Yes Mycroft, leaving the house and exerting energy does that, it's called being tired." Sherlock replied sarcastically, his eyes starting to burn. Part of him screamed for him to kick Mycroft out of the flat, while the other half screamed for him to ignore him all together.

"Does John know his best man left his wedding early?" Mycroft retorted. Sherlock stopped, staring at him, his heart freezing in his chest. He averted his eyes.

"No," he whispered.

"What?" Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed.

"No." Sherlock repeated, his voice breaking a bit. A tear hit his cheek, his hand covering his mouth. He couldn't hold it back anymore. He pinched his eyes shut, the tears hitting his cheeks like rains drops on the window. He inhaled through his teeth, dropping his hands to his lap. Mycroft stared at him, feeling a small surge of anger course through him which he kept hidden behind his usual, hardened visage.

"You poor thing," Mycroft muttered, cocking his head to the side. "You got too close to the sun now your wings have melted."

"Shut up you're not making anything better," Sherlock muttered, his voice quivering, tears forced themselves from under his eye lids and only came out faster as he opened them. He sniffled. Removing the corsage from his breast.

"Sherlock," Mycroft stood and came to his brothers side, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You let your walls down and they came in, took what they wanted and waltzed back out. They made you believe you were one of them, loved, cherished, and now look at you." He reached up, running his fingers through the detectives curly hair.

"He said I was his best friend." Sherlock whimpered, trying to get ahold of himself but failing, only crying harder. "So nothing you say matters."

"Sherlock, your version of best friend does not apply with people like them. He would not die for you, not while he has a wife and child. He wouldn't even miss her birthday for you. In their world, best friend is just a title, not an honor." He explained. "You poured your heart into that speech believing you were one of the best things in John's world because of what he called you." He paused, then smiled. "You are Leonardo Di Caprio and the title 'best friend' is your Oscar. It means the world to you because it's eluded you for so long, but at the end of the day it's just a trophy, it's just a title, and you're just the same as you always were." Sherlock listened, what Mycroft said making sense even if he hated it.

"What do I do?" He choked a bit, wiping at his eyes.

"Rebuild your walls. Cling to your title if you wish, but don't be so eager to let them in." He rubbed Sherlock's shoulder. "Remember what I used to say when you were little?"

"Get off the table we eat from there?" Sherlock looked up, replying sarcastically. Mycroft laughed, shaking his head.

"That too. I used to say 'what happens to others is their business and it can't hurt you if you don't care. With care comes tears-"

"With tears comes weakness, cloudiness and doubt. With doubt comes death." Sherlock finished. "This is how people like us survive. The more observant we are the more we analyze, the more we hurt, the more likely we are to take our own life. Look out for yourself, no one else. You are number 1, you are all that should matter." Mycroft turned, hugging him tight. He kissed the top of his head. Sherlock closed his eyes, turning to wrap his arms around Mycroft -an act he hadn't done since he was a child, just the same as crying as he had.

"You're not alone Sherlock, there's always someone here for you, no matter what."


End file.
